


Bruisings

by allegoricalrose (SilentStars)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1852345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentStars/pseuds/allegoricalrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Rose,” he half-moans, his voice dark and deep. “The valiant slayer of my demons.”</i> Possessive in the twilight, distant and angry by dawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Heat of the Dark

She couldn’t find her slippers earlier and winces now at egregiously loud sound her flip-flops make as she tiptoes down the corridor. She pauses outside the Doctor’s door, breath held, and listens. Nothing. Relieved, she grips the thongs tighter between her toes and is about to rise onto the balls of her feet and sneak away when she hears the noise she’d been worried about.

Her hand hesitates at the door handle but she shakes off the nerves; he needs his sleep and nightmares are not sleep. It was only by chance that she’d caught him nodding off in the console room this evening, his head slowly drooping down to his chest and then snapping back up with a shake and a groan. He’d looked for all the world like her cousin’s toddler, fighting sleep in order to stay up and play. It was probably only because she’d asked at a rare vulnerable time, his normal defenses down from exhaustion, that he’d admitted how long it had been since he’d slept. She’d accepted no excuses, didn’t say a word, simply took his arm and pulled him down the corridors to his room; it was really a testament to his fatigue that he didn’t even protest, just allowed himself to be led like a lamb to the slaughter.

Which was exactly what he had murmured as he sat on the edge of his bed and untied his boots slowly, like his fingers were moving through syrup. Vivid night terrors, almost hallucinogenic in quality, he’d whispered, the end of the universe and the end of—he’d cut off there, swallowing and looking down again. When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were so arrestingly raw that she had to bite back a gasp. I’m just going to take off my jumper, he’d warned her softly, as if his forearms peeking out of his t-shirt might offend her, and her heart clenched in her chest. Impulsively, she’d bent over to kiss his forehead as he shuffled under the covers, looking so lost and alone in the sea of his bed covers, before leaving him to his rest. 

He still looks small and adrift, curled up along the very edge of the large bed, and she suspects he’s trying to take up the least amount of space as possible, that he doesn’t think he deserves even the comfort of his own bed. His breath is rapid and he’s lightly moaning in his sleep, the muscles of his face contorted into an undulating grimace. 

She kneels down beside the bed. “Doctor,” she whispers urgently but he doesn’t wake, if anything he moans louder. “Doctor!” she repeats, lightly nudging his shoulder. She’s read somewhere about waking people with PTSD from nightmares and thinks they warned against rousing the person forcefully or with strong touch, but can’t remember exactly now. It’s not like it would necessarily apply to Time Lords anyway, she laments.

Touch must do _something_ positive for war-broken Time Lords though, because he stills at her gentle prodding and his breathing evens out. She waits a minute and then makes to stand, her muscles poised for action, when his arm shoots out and wraps around her waist, pinning her under his arm and to the bed. For someone dead asleep, his grip is strong as iron and though she tries to wiggle out of his grasp, she’s stuck, her nose smashed against his shoulder and her mouth in the dint under his arm.  
Just as she’s about to squeak out for mercy, he moves again, hauling her up with the same arm and clasping her on top of his chest. Her feet hang precariously free off the side of the bed and she’s forced to bring them up and straddle his legs to keep her balance. She freezes, tense and white-hot at every spot where they’re touching. They're catalogued in a maniacal stupor: her cheek is on his rising and falling pectoral muscles, her mouth is dangerously close to encircling his nipple, one arm is clamped inside his elbow which rests heavily on her back, her hips dig into his upper thighs, and her stomach is pressing down on his groin. That last one requires an entire novel to itself, she thinks, as she shifts slightly and realises with a jolt that he is not only fully erect, but that his erection is pressing quite insistently into her lower abdomen.

And he’s starting to rock his hips.

In a half-delirious attempt at rescuing the situation, halting things before it gets to the point where he would be dismayed at his actions (she knows him well enough), she manages to transform her involuntary moan into his name. “Doctor!” she forces out, sucking in a deep breath as she shakes his shoulders as well as she can still trapped against his chest. 

His eyes snap open and lock onto hers. In the dim light cast from the blue glow of the corridor, she sees only the bottomless depth of his widened pupils and a shiver rockets through her core. 

“Rose,” he half-moans, his voice dark and deep. “The valiant slayer of my demons.” 

She barely has time to process his words before she feels the ripple of his abdominal muscles contracting and he captures her lips between his. He catches them in a gasp as she sucks in air only to inhale an aroused Time Lord, his teeth chewing at her lower lip before his tongue hungrily seeks her own through her parted lips. It takes a second to process, but she responds eagerly, pressing her lips tighter to hers and tilting her head to get even closer. 

His hands move to her hips, dragging her up his body and moaning at the friction along his now throbbing length. She feels it, hot and urgent, pressing into her center now and her hips spasm down into his in response. His lips haven’t released hers, his tongue still fighting for dominance inside her mouth; she’s his, she’d stopped fighting it long ago. 

Arousal shoots like fireworks through her body and she knows she’s completely wet for him. He seems to know it too, likely can smell it or something, because all at once he growls and pushes her to sitting. Roughly he parts her legs further with his hands on the insides of her knees and then grips her hips again, rocking and manipulating her body to grind against him at a frantic pace. He’s gripping her hip bone so tightly she knows there will be ten finger sized bruises there in the morning and the thought douses her pajama bottoms even more.

“Doctor…” she moans loudly, resting her hands on his chest for leverage and thrusting harder against him. He reaches up and tugs at her camisole, tearing it at the neckline when it doesn’t yield immediately. His eyes widen as they take in her wildly bouncing breasts, one hand struggling to catch an evasive bud while his other hand returns to her hip, changing her rhythm into more of a rocking motion. 

“Need you,” he chokes out, his voice so low and sensual that she almost salivates with need. 

“Mmmph,” is the only noise she manages to make in reply but her eyes must betray enough desire and permission. All at once he flips her the middle of the bed, hard enough that she hears the headboard crash against the wall. She wonders how well his room is soundproofed for only a second before his mouth covers her breast and all extraneous thoughts are crushed under the salience of his tongue drawing circles around her aching peak. He lowers his weight from his other hand to his elbow so that it too can join in the action, rolling her other nipple between his fingers before pinching it firmly.

She screams. She doesn’t moan, or close her eyes, gasp like she might have in past sexual encounters; she screams and she’s never screamed before and he’s nipping at her swollen tip and brushing his thumb around the halo of her other nipple so lightly and he’s thrusting against her desperately needy sex and she needs him to be inside her _right now_. 

He knows, oh, he knows. His mouth returns to hers, sucking greedily at her lower lip and biting down as his fingers relinquish her breasts in favour of edging south, skimming over her stomach. She feels his nails lightly scrape the delicate skin between her pubic bones, under the waistband of her pajama shorts, and then he’s between her folds, trailing his fingers through the wetness and exploring everywhere but where she needs him most. 

One finger nudges at her slippery entrance, circling once before slipping in. She whimpers, arching her hips upward to draw him in further. A throaty chuckle drifts to her ears and he rewards her greedy movements with a swipe of his thumb up from her entrance to her engorged clit while simultaneously adding another finger to join his first. She feels his smirk across her lips as he languorously pumps his fingers in and out of her slit a few times before removing his hand completely, running his moistened fingers slowly up her side until they tangle in her hair. 

He raises his lips and letting them hover only centimeters above hers; the metaphorical electricity sparking between their skin feels like it's singeing her hair, tastes acrid in her mouth.

“I’m about to fuck you, Rose Tyler; a good, hard fucking,” he intones in a voice so deep it’s animalistic. “Run now; it’s your last chance.”

His words steal her breath and she has to suck in a deep, raspy lungful of air before she can respond. “Stop talking and start taking,” she pants, daring him with her eyes. 

With a growl deep in his throat, he reaches down and rips open a side seam in her black knickers, flinging the tattered rag to the floor. He seems to remember, now, that he’s still fully clothed but the urgency is too great and he frees himself through the button and zipper of his jeans. From his kneeling position above her, she has an ideal vantage point for viewing his bobbing phallus. He’s…big, no doubt about it, and she bites her lip in nervous anticipation. His length is mostly smooth except for a thick ring of skin near the base and the glans is a bit more bulbous than an average human might have. 

Hesitantly she reaches up to encircle his straining erection, lightly pumping its entirety a few times before brushing her fingers along the ring at his base. He’s already slick with pre-come and more comes out as she explores the upper anatomy. 

He’s gone still and quiet during her study. Worried, she tilts her head up to view his face. His eyes are squeezed closed as if in fervent prayer and his lips are forming silent words in a language she recognizes only as not being English. As her hands go still, his eyes open and gaze down at her and she has to squirm at the reverent expression in his eyes; like she is a goddess and he her worshiper. 

He stares at her for a good minute, letting his eyes wander occasionally up and down her naked body but always returning to the home base of her eyes. Just when she begins to worry he might never get his fill, he lunges at her, pressing her back down to the bed with a frantic biting of the skin above her clavicle as he positions himself at her entrance. Slowly he inches the head in and pauses for a few seconds, letting her adjust to the largest portion of his cock. She’s panting from the stretch, white spots circling her vision like vultures and then all at once he thrusts all the way inside and the white light conquers. 

“Fuck. Fuck,” he groans, “you’re so tight and hot, I can’t… Fuck, and you smell like Rose, but stronger, and you smell of me.”

Gone is his meager self-control as he slides in and out of her in long, deep strokes that quickly disintegrate into wild and uncontrolled thrusts. “You’re mine now,” he grunts, “mine forever. And you’ll never leave me. Never.”

It can’t be more than fifteen seconds before she plummets over the crest and comes crashing onto the shore, bathed in the sweat of his desire. Hazily she feels her walls contracting around him as he continues to pump into her with his eyes closed and his face screwed up tight and she winces slightly at his size within her clenching walls. Still, she squeezes her internal muscles tight to bring him to his end and he groans into her hair and comes with a whimper, pumping his seed into her and collapsing heavily onto her chest. 

She’s about to put her arms weakly around him, to hug him close when he sits up, his eyes still black and hooded with desire. He’s still hard inside her. 

“Turn over,” he orders, gently enough that she isn’t discomfited but authoritarian enough that she feels arousal flood her folds once more. Slightly unsure what he wants, she rolls over onto her stomach, twisting her head back to look at him. He’s busy fully removing his jeans and then he reaches under her hips to raise her up to her hands and knees. _Ah._.

He leans over and places his hands over hers, entwining their fingers and squeezing her hands briefly before moving them to wrap around slats in the headboard. She rubs her thighs together in eagerness but he stops her, spreading her knees and running a finger along her folds.

“Your pleasure is mine to give now,” he informs her, his voice rumbly and low. “You. Are. Mine.” He punctuates his words with strokes to her clit and she bucks her hips against him. The bed shakes as he moves closer, gripping her hip with one hand and the headboard above her hands with his other. She can feel his rock hard cock pressing against her bum and he runs it along the small of her back once and then through her sopping wet folds to gather her moisture. It rubs against her clit and she keens and bucks her hips again. He stills her with a steady hand on her hip. 

“Doctor,” she pleads, needing him again; not sure it’s possible to need him again so quickly. 

“What do you want, Rose?” he growls.

“You,” she whimpers, “You inside me, please…”

“What else do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me; I want you to fuck me so hard that I can’t leave this bed for days.” She’s begging now; she’s unashamed.

“Oh, I may never let you leave my bed,” he threatens and with one swift push he’s fully inside her. His pace is fast and punishing and she can barely breathe as he pumps furiously inside her, coming almost completely out with each stroke and then slamming back inside with gusto. Her arms ache from pushing back against him. It’s exactly what she needs, exactly what she’d wanted and she’s soon suffused with heat, close to being set alight. 

“Come on, Rose, please, come, I…” He snakes the hand that had been on her hip down to her folds, rubbing roughly in time with his strokes. The walls of the room seem to close in on her and the wick catches; she bursts into screaming flames and there are pieces of her on the walls and in between the clothes in his wardrobe and she hopes on him and—

\---

She wakes up alone in her bed, pawing along the sheets and almost rolling off the bed in her efforts to locate him. The sheets are twisted around her legs and she struggles to free herself, breathing heavily with the exertion. Her room is warm, stifling, even, and her hair feels sweaty and matted against her cheek. 

Was it a dream? It wouldn’t be the first, but it had seemed so real, so vivid and pleasurable. She moves her legs experimentally. Nope, definitely not a dream, unless dream sex has evolved to result in soreness. Sighing, she flops back against the sheets. 

Why was she back in her bed? Had he carried her back here last night? She can’t remember anything after that second time, only the intensity of her orgasm and the white light and then…nothing else. 

Gingerly, she hauls her legs over the side of the bed and stretches. Nervous anticipation is boiling in her stomach and tiny bubbles of icy electricity fizzle through her veins as she stumbles toward the shower, her fingertips and heart tingling. She's already naked so she steps right in, heedless of the still slightly cool water temperature. It's only pure, wired-in routine that leads her to lather up her hair and pour some body wash on the loofah; otherwise, she's sure she would just be staring into the creamy marble tiles until the infinite supply of water runs out. 

A vague twinge of pain brings her back to herself as she soaps up the skin around her hips. Glancing down, she sees those ten fingerprint bruises, blue tapering out to light green; there's an identical set on the back of her hips. Her hand flies to her neck where she feels the sensitive skin heralding another deep bruise, the tiny indents of teeth marks. She closes her eyes and lets the hot water stream down her face, trailing thick tracks like tears across her lips and down her chest. 

When she finally emerges from the shower, she doesn't bother to dry her hair, just twists it back into a messy bun and applies a light layer of mascara. She eyes the bite mark on her neck, tempted to just leave it, but remembering at the last minute the presence of Jack aboard. And the fact that she has no idea what the Doctor is thinking, whether everything has changed or if he's going to move forward as if last night never happened. A swipe of a thick cover-up stick hides most of the damage, but she knows the evidence is still there, were anyone to look closely. 

Conscious of the dull ache between her legs, she pulls on a floaty sundress and nervously makes her way to the console room, trailing her fingers along the coral wall as she goes. She's almost to her destination when a pair of hands cover her eyes from behind and she jumps out of her skin.

"Hey there, gorgeous," a silky American voice drawls. "You're skittish today."

"Morning, Jack," she mutters, "sorry, my head's in the cloud."

"Late night?" he teases and she flushes crimson.

"Never you mind," she snaps but manages to imbue her words with enough lightness that he won't take offense or take her seriously. 

He laughs, holding his hands in the air in mock defeat. "Not a morning person, got it. So," he whispers conspiringly, leaning forward with a twinkle in his eye, "any idea what the good Doc has planned for today? He refuses to tell me, says he wants to talk to you first."

Her heart stops and she sucks in a shallow breath. "N—no," she stammers, breaking eye contact and furiously interrogating the state of her fingernail varnish. 

"Well, go get it out of him so I can get dressed; I'm not going out in swim trunks to a frozen planet again." She notices, for the first time, that he's clad in only a short white towel and slippers. 

"I'll…I guess I'll go talk to him then. I'll let you know."

"Great. I'll be in the galley. You want anything?"

"Nah, thanks, Jack." She swallows heavily as the tall captain strolls down the hall, whistling jauntily. Her head swivels slowly to the archway leading into the console room. Noises filter through to her ears, jingling and the clicking of levers being pulled, and she knows without a doubt that the Doctor was indeed inside, tinkering and setting course for their next destination. One foot moves. And then the other. 

"Rose Tyler!" the Doctor rings out, his voice muffled from under the controls. She takes another step forward and he slides out from under the console on the dolly he was laying on. He sits up and pulls his eyepiece off and on top of his head.

"Finally, she emerges!" he exclaims, standing up and brushing off solder dust from his jeans. "I need to talk to you."

"Yeah," she manages to murmur, her eyes fixed on a point just left of his shoulder. Blood hums in her ears.

"Firstly, thanks for last night. I feel much better now." His words are soft and sincere, if not a little puzzled that she struggles to keep eye contact with him.

"Uh huh," she exhales, surprised that he's not dancing around the subject and taken aback at his open, unguarded expression.

"Secondly, today. I was thinking about taking us to a picturesque planet in the Trexian system, founded and cultivated by a highly religious sect from Earth a few thousand years in your future. There are dunes made of diamond and ground gemstone dust as high as skyscrapers framing the old city, beautiful purple and gold mountains, and a canal system similar to ancient, er, I mean, Venice of your time. Before it flooded."

"Sounds great," she murmurs, unsure why he's telling her all this, why he couldn't have just told Jack about his plans. Why he's brushing right over last night, despite being so upfront about it. Is that it? Are things back to normal, last night just a bit of fun, some evening entertainment? He's not human, after all, and he _had_ alluded to a wildly different sexual schema for humans and other species in the far future when they had first met Jack… 

"But I remembered this morning that they also have extremely strict rules for females. You'd need to wear a full dress and veil, it's pretty restrictive. Is that okay, or would you rather go elsewhere? There's another planet with long—"

"It's fine," she forces out, aware that her tone's a little sharp. He looks startled at her voice and searches her up and down with concern. 

"Are you alright? You seem—"

The second he sees the camouflaged mark on her neck lengthens and becomes tangible, thick and viscous in her mouth and suffocating her nostrils and throat. His face turns rigid, his jaw clenching so tightly she worries he might bite right through his teeth. 

And then all at once, his face falls into his usual tight, closed-lip smile. "Ah. Well, if you need more rest, we can go later." The windows of his eyes are still shut like steel traps. "When the cat's asleep…" she thinks she hears him mutter under his breath, but when she narrows her eyebrows inquisitively, his face is schooled into an expression of neutrality. 

"Um, no, it's fine. I'll, um, I'll go tell Jack we're going. I think he wants to know what to wear?"

"Warm weather." His voice is distracted and monotonous, as if he's already turned back to his tinkering, except that he's still staring at her. 

"Okay…" She trails off, not wanting to leave it like this, like she's done something wrong and has no idea of the transgression. Like he's angry with her, maybe angry with himself. It's probably the latter, she thinks with a stab of disappointment and rejection. 

Slowly, she pivots on her right foot and is about to walk away when a tiny burst of blind courage effervesces on her tongue. "Do you want to talk about last night?" she asks in a tiny voice, immediately cringing at the sound of her own childish words echo in the vaulted room. 

" _Talk_ about it?" he asks with a disconcerting blend of venom and bewilderment. His mouth snaps open again, his forehead canvassing angry lines and his eyes flashing, but just as quickly, it snaps closed again. He takes a couple of deep breaths. She stares, fearful and transfixed, at the pursed lips that only hours ago had kissed her and proclaimed her as his. "No, Rose, ta," he says sarcastically. "You owe me nothing, you… I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea about… Just…go get ready. We'll leave in twenty minutes."

"But—"

"Please," he grinds out. His voice seems ragged, broken. So does his face, his slumped shoulders. The anger is gone, replaced by the far worse signals of defeat. 

She retreats quickly, stumbling over the jump seat as she scrambles backward. She's about to turn and flee when his words filter through to her frontal lobes and are finally processed. 

Whipping around, she storms back over to where he is still, _still,_ watching her. "Excuse me? I owe _you_ nothing?" she bites out, her words clipped and dangerous. 

He looks startled and takes a step back from her heated rampage. "Well, yeah. I…you…"

"What about what you owe me, huh?" She knows there is fire in her eyes.

"I owe you everything," he replies softly, incongruously. He's not looking at her anymore. It tempers her rage, but not completely.

"You can't say things like that, _do_ things like that and then just… Is it nothing to you? Was it…" she trails off in frustration. "You just want to brush it under the rug, don't you." It wasn't a question. "Of course you do. What else would you do?"

"What else would you have me do?" he beseeches her in the same quiet, beaten voice. 

He's holding the universe and an insignificant shop girl from a council estate and he chooses the universe. He should choose the universe. She knows it, agrees with it…it still hurts, despite it all. The connections between the emotional and logical parts of her brain are less sophisticated than his, the wild emotions more prone to flooding and bleeding through. But she blinks back the encroaching tears, swallows the lump in her throat, and nods at him. 

"Okay. We don't have to bring it up again. I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he croaks in a whisper, his fingers twitching as if they want to squeeze her hand reassuringly but instead are doused by his superior inhibitory system. 

"Okay," she mouths, no sound escaping her throat. He keeps his vigil on the grating and she turns to walk away.

"Rose?" he calls out when she's almost out the door. She turns back to him, cursing the veil of hope that blankets her aching skin. 

"There's a culturally acceptable dress and headdress in the wardrobe room. Just past the shoe area, I'm sure the TARDIS will make it obvious."

She nods and continues walking, stifling the urge to run until she's out of his line of vision.


	2. Chapter 2

Rose glares at the two men, their faces lifted to the warm sun, as she steps through the TARDIS doors in her thick and already sweaty attire. Throats bared and ready for the slaughter and she'd be happy to oblige, she notes with more than a twinge of twisted sadism. They're both jacketless, Jack in cargo shorts and a tight red t-shirt and the Doctor in only his jeans and a short-sleeved white crew neck. They're both wearing sandals and she kicks her calf-high laced boots bitterly in the sand. 

But she'd agreed to wear this archaic outfit for their visit to Trexis Beta in honour of the religious and cultural customs of the planet, so she can't really complain. On the bright side, at least she won't get sunburn since every square centimetre of her skin is covered in a thick layer of scratchy canvas and wool. The headdress covers her entire face apart from a tiny sliver for her eyes, and the heat from her breath is suffocating, is already causing tiny droplet of condensation and sweat to trickle down her forehead. Even her hands are shielded from view, encased in black woollen gloves that stretch to her upper biceps.

Jack snorts with laughter as he catches sight of her, doubling over to catch his breath, but the Doctor only smiles at her sympathetically.

"You sure you're okay with this? Not too late to go elsewhere."

Rose sighs. "No, it's fine. I'll get used to it; besides, it's really pretty here. As long as we can stick to the shade, yeah?"

"Of course," the Doctor agrees and ducks back into the TARDIS to grab an umbrella. "Here, you can shield yourself from the sun a little with this."

It doesn't really help but at least it keeps the sun out of her eyes; of all the body parts she has covered, what she really wants protected is her eyes, but the Doctor had warned her that eyewear was strictly forbidden for females on the planet. Something about keeping their eyes on the light of the gods. So when the Doctor and Jack slip on their sunglasses and start ambling toward the city skyline in the distance, she glares again. Not that they have any way of knowing she's glaring, seeing as her eyebrows are also hidden from view.

"So in this culture, women are only a half step below the gods," the Doctor starts lecturing as they walk across the lightly undulating dunes, tall mountains gleaming in the distance and sparkling white mounds of sand dwarfing the silhouetted city.

"Probably started because of the low ratio of women to men when they first colonised the planet," he continues. "Anyway, because of their holy status, females must always remain concealed from view, allowing only their eyes, the seat of wisdom and reason, to be displayed. Women's eyes are considered the most sacred part of the body, drawing light and energy from the gods above and manifesting it to the lowly menfolk through eye contact. If a female, even a tiny infant girl, makes eye contact with a male, it's considered the utmost honour, requiring immediate genuflection and prayer in thanks for her glory." The Doctor pauses, looking at Jack. "If you accidentally catch a woman's eye, you need to bow immediately, forehead to the ground. There are dire consequences if you don't."

"Are they _always_ covered?" Jack queries with a gleam in his eye.

"In public and almost always at home. Once a month, they can remove their headdress in public; it's called Thi'crist, day of the burn. Otherwise they dress and sleep in the dark, even with their spouses."

"It's like they're repressed and empowered at the same time," Rose muses aloud, struggling to keep up with their long strides in her constrictive dress. 

"Just a different way of thinking," the Doctor says softly. "You're repressed and empowered in ways you don't think about either. Your sexuality, for example. It can lead to marginalization and derision and it can make men fall at your feet and worship you."

Rose halts in place, staring agape at the Doctor. 

"Er, human female sexuality, that is. Not, um, yours specifically," he blusters, his cheeks flushed. Jack smirks but wisely says nothing.

"Right," she mutters and begins walking again, flapping the bodice of her dress to get some air circulating. Picking up her pace, she tries to catch up with the Doctor but he only smiles weakly at her through closed lips and drops back so that she is walking abreast with Jack. Slowing her pace only leads the Doctor to reduce his too, so she once more sighs and resignedly walks beside Jack, twisting the umbrella so she doesn't stab him in the face.

Though they're dressed more appropriately for the weather, the boys soon begin to feel the heat of the early evening sun and the trio speaks little the closer they came to the citadel-laden city. Rose's hair is dripping wet at the nape of her neck when they finally stumble into a shaded bit of street under a tall tower made of red and white sandstone. The style of the buildings reminds her of the pictures she's seen of India but with some Asian and South American influences too. 

"Try to keep your eyes down, Rose," the Doctor warns her quietly, "making eye contact with men tends to draw quite a bit of attention. But feel free to look at any females; eye contact between females is common and not noteworthy, since each already possesses the holy light."

No sooner has he spoken than a female figure appears in front of them and bows modestly. A sidelong glance tells her that the Doctor and Jack are politely averting their eyes, watching the scene in their peripheral vision. The woman smiles and takes Rose's hand, stroking her gloved palm three times before releasing it. 

"Are you visiting?" the woman asks, a warm and welcoming expression on her face. She looks only at Rose, barely acknowledging the others' presence. 

"Um, yeah," Rose replies, a smile of her own gracing her lips, "just passing through. It's really beautiful here."

"Yes," the woman states matter-of-factly but with a degree of reverence, "it is indeed. My name is Shrishti. We don't get a lot of off-world visitors; I could hear right away from your mental signature that you just arrived."

Rose whips her head around to seek the Doctor's eye, but he holds his eyes steadfastly on the pavement. "They're aural telepaths. Don't worry, they can only read basic surface information like your age and place of birth. Things you might find on a driver's permit; it's like ID here," he whispers.

Shrishti frowns, immediately gleaning that she'd upset Rose. "You're not used to telepathy. I'm sorry, I'll block off the signal."

"No, no, it's okay," Rose rushes to reassure her, "I was just surprised. Thanks for coming over to welcome us."

"It's a privilege to meet foreigners," Shrishti demurs, bowing her head again. "These are your…brothers?" she asks, nodding toward the two men at her side with a confused expression.

Definitely not brothers. "No, um, they're—"

"I'm her father, this here is her husband," the Doctor interrupts, gesturing toward Jack while still watching the ground. Rose startles a little but manages to regain her composure quickly. Of course he decides to be her father; what else would he choose? What else is she to him, last night excluded?

"Welcome," Shrishti says genuinely, fixing her eyes above their heads, and turns back to Rose. "Please, come back to my house and eat dinner with us, take a break from the sun. It's warmer than usual for this time of year. My husband and I would love to hear more about your home planet and your travels; like I said, it's so rare to meet anyone from outside the city, much less the planet."

Rose nods, grateful for the chance to cool off, and glances at the boys. They don’t say anything and still won't meet her eye, so she feels justified in making the decision for them all. "That would be lovely; thanks, Shrishti."

The tall woman smiles and leads the way down a shaded and narrow alleyway a few hundred meters away. Rose grabs the Doctor's arm roughly as he walks, tugging him to walk beside her even as he tries to distance himself again. 

"Why am I suddenly married to Jack?" she whispers tightly, her fingernails digging into the skin on his bare arm. He looks up at her fingers and then back down at the ground.

"Family members and spouses are really the only acceptable type of travelling companion around here," he explains, his voice low. "Otherwise we'd have no good excuse for staying so close to you."

"But why… I mean, you—" She's interrupted by Jack suddenly dropping to his hands and knees and pressing his forehead to the sandy ground, a cheeky grin on his face. His bum is in the air a little more than absolutely necessary and he waggles it at the woman trying to escape without further incident.

"Jack!" the Doctor hisses furiously, shrugging of Rose's hand from his arm. "Stop it. Keep your eyes to yourself."

The American chortles and jumps back to his feet, his walk transformed into a swagger. Rose stifles a giggle and reaches out tentatively for the Doctor's hand. It's shoved firmly in his pocket and her hand closes around air.

"Rosie! Wifey!" Jack sing-songs. "Look at me so I can fall down and worship your glory."

She shakes her head subtly at him, glancing at the Doctor. His lips are flattened and his jaw is clenched as he stares at this feet.

Shrishti turns around as they turn down another darkened passageway. "Just about there; it's the one with the white door."

The inside of her house is cool and damp like a cave, and Rose wants nothing more than to tear her dress off and run naked through the beautiful chill. But she doesn't, stands awkwardly in between the Doctor and Jack instead, making small talk about the décor. Shrishti invites them to sit and prepares something akin to iced tea but with a fruitier flavour. Her husband returns home a few minutes later, a tall burly man with curly hair and dark green eyes. He's taken aback at the sight of three strangers in his home, but bows his head at Rose and sits stiffly on the edge of an armchair. Rose realises, all of a sudden, that she has no idea what Shrishti looks like, will probably never know.

They chat for about an hour, Rose and Shrishti carrying most of the conversation as the three men hang their heads down reverently. It’s the longest she's ever heard Jack or the Doctor be quiet and she feels like she should revel in the turn of the tables. Except that all she really wants is the Doctor to look at her, to talk to her, to stop pretending that everything's normal and be his usual domineering and enthusiastic self. This gaze aversion, his respectful silence… she doesn't like it one bit, despite the fact that they’re in a culture that demands it. Just another excuse to be doing what he would have done anyway, she suspects. 

Dinner is simple, prepared by Shrishti's husband, consisting of breads, rich, tangy spreads, and cold chopped vegetables in a salty-sour dressing. The men join in the conversation a little more as the night progresses on, possibly spurred on by the ice-cold red wine and a slight loosening of social rules in the presence of friends. 

Eventually, the pitcher of wine is emptied and the darkness of night settles in, so they stand to make their thanks and farewells. Shrishti walks them to the door, thanking them again for the company, but the second she unlatches the door, she slams it closed again.

"Sandstorm," she sighs, "I though it was unusually warm… I'm afraid you three are stuck here for a while. Sandstorms like this tend to last an entire day, I'm sorry. Luckily I have a couple of spare rooms, I'll make them up for you. We’ll have the privilege of having you as guests for a few hours more." She hurries upstairs against their protests, waving off Rose's offer to help, and her husband follows behind.

The Doctor peers out a crack in the door. "Yep. No leaving for us, unless anyone's in need of a complete dermal and subdermal exfoliation."

Rose shudders. "At least we have somewhere to stay. Imagine if we were caught outside in this."

Shrishti and her husband come back downstairs. "Rose, you and your husband are on the first room on the right; your father is in the room at the very end of the hall. Sleep well."

Rose swallows and ducks her head. Right. Married. She can sense Jack's wide grin from across the room as he hurriedly bows and races up the stairs like an eager puppy dog, leering in her direction playfully with his tongue touching the center of his lips. 

"Thanks," she forces out in the general direction of their hosts and starts climbing the stairs, not daring to look behind her at the Doctor. He doesn't even glance at her as she pauses in the doorframe of the first room, walking straight past her to the room several doors down, his face grim.

"Doctor…"

He doesn't turn around but stills in the doorframe. The muscles in his back and neck are tight, almost vibrating against his snug t-shirt. "Yes, Rose?"

Jack is bouncing up and down on the bed in her periphery. 

"You're…okay with this? The sleeping arrangements?" she adds when he remains silent. 

"I told you this morning, it's none of my business."

Glancing behind her, she yanks the headdress off her face, her skin singing at the fresh, uncirculated air. "None of your business?" she hisses. "You're the one who decided Jack and I were _married_. Don’t act like this was my choice, like you're angry at me for your own bloody decisions!"

She sees the veins in his neck enlarge and tentatively steps closer to him. "I choose the pairing I thought you'd prefer. I look more like your father anyway."

Her lips are almost on his arm now, she's so close to him. "You're not my father."

"Might as well be," he mutters under his breath. 

"Why's that?" she snaps, angrily. Last night was so…there aren't words…and now he's ripping her heart to shreds and acting like it's her own fault. 

"You know exactly why, Rose," he spits out, his voice still quiet enough so as not to arouse the worries of their hosts but dangerous enough that she wants to step back. She doesn't.

"You think you can just… you're not a father figure to me and the fact that you're trying to convince me you are is just sick. What's wrong with you? Why can't you just be honest with me, tell me what you're really thinking? How you really feel… I can take it, whatever it is. Stop treating me like a child."

The air sizzles around them and she feels like they're on the edge of a precipice.

"Go back to your pretty boy," he finally grinds out, stepping away from her side. His eyes are screwed closed. "Go whisper sweet nothings in his ear and stroke his young skin and fuck him like you've been waiting to do all day." 

"Fuck _you_ ," she hisses. Pivoting on her heel, she storms away to her bedroom. 

She slams the door behind her and bursts into silent tears, her chest shaking and fighting to catch a full breath. 

"Rose? Honey? What's wrong? I was only kidding, you know. I'll sleep on the floor…" 

Jack's anxious voice startles her, having forgotten he was in the room. He's hovering over her with such a gentle, worried expression that she barely chokes back a loud, ragged sob. His arms are open, tentatively, as if he's afraid to spook her away, and she folds himself into his embrace like his hug is the one she wants more than anything else. 

What did she do? Why is the Doctor attacking her, striking out blindly and spitting out nonsense about her and Jack? If he's trying to deflect her attentions, turn her to someone else instead of the futility of his own arms…

"What is it? Did the Doctor say something to upset you?" Jack's eyes turn dark and she can almost smell the testosterone and vasopressin seeping out his pores. 

"No," she sighs and closes her eyes, composing herself. "It's nothing. I'm, um, I'm just hot and tired of being in this dress thing all day. Sorry. It's nothing to cry over."

"Doesn't seem like nothing," he intones soothingly into her hair, "Tell Uncle Jack. Tell your loving husband, the old ball and chain, your old man, your, um, your steadfast and explosive lover..." She can tell he's trying to inject a little humor, get her to smile, and she obliges gratefully but weakly. His arms are solid around her back and she leans closer into his firm hold.

The walls of the room are whitewashed and rough around the edges, the central chandelier and lack of windows casting odd shadows in the corners and crevices. She stares at a patch of darkness swinging across the wall from the ceiling light. "He just frustrates me, you know?"

"Completely. And yet he's amazing enough in other ways that we put up with him. What does that say about us, I wonder?"

"I guess that we value the vast amount of good times over the few bad…" she thinks out loud and then sighs. "It's just hard sometimes."

"I know," he replies gently. She knows he's holding back an easy innuendo at her phraseology and appreciates his self-control for her benefit. Jack's a playful, irreverent, lustful character on the outside, but she's seen enough of him now to glimpse his true self: compassionate and loyal to the end. 

He holds her quietly for a few minutes before she feels better enough to wipe her eyes and step out of his arms. "Thanks, Jack. I guess I needed that."

"Anytime, doll. Now, are you really going to make me sleep on the floor? I will, but this bed looks far softer. And I'll keep my hands to myself. Mostly," he promises with a cross-the-heart gesture and a disarming grin. 

"I'll cut off any body part that touches me," she agrees with a watery smile. 

"Fair enough," he laughs.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack's out like a light, dead to the world even before his head hits the pillow, but Rose can't find it in her to close her eyes as she lies in her scratchy white shift at his side. Anger and distress and regret are thrumming through her extremities, her core clenched tight. 

The Doctor doesn't flinch at sacrificing the world to save her, literally gives her the universe on a silver platter everyday, but he can't even handle a simple morning-after talk. She's not asking for much, isn't asking that he drop everything to become her doting househusband with an apron and feather duster. Is it really that difficult for him to acknowledge their night together, to at least do the mature thing and _tell_ her it wasn't anything more than a one-night special? He's alien, but he's not completely removed from polite society and she knows that even his two hearts aren't big enough to encompass his fearful compassion. 

She lets out a long sigh. She could have more compassion herself; she knows the Doctor is still rubbed raw from his actions in the Time War. Maybe he's afraid of how she sees him now; last night had been rough, dark, intense. Unbelievably hot. 

Outside her control, her legs squirm in the bed sheets at the memory. The shirtless man beside her snorts in response and begins to snore lightly, each rhythmic vibration pounding into her own pitifully singular and breakable heart like a knife. Guilt. Guilt. (Slightly longer than expected pause.) Guilt. 

She shouldn't have snapped at him, pushed so hard. He was still a complete and utter git, but while he'd been emotionally distant, she'd been reactionary and emotional; neither was exactly a mature response. Regardless of what he'd said to her, she didn't feel good about her excoriating words, swearing back at him in anger. That particular word in the context of last night…that was another matter altogether. The contrast is painful and she feels tears well up behind her eyes. 

Her anger subsides only to be replaced with a dull ache, a feeling of icy emptiness. The hollowness consumes her to the point where it becomes difficult to take in a full lungful of air. 

She turns her head toward Jack, sleeping with his mouth open and still snoring. 

She looks toward the door. 

Slowly and gingerly, so as not to rouse Jack or the other members of the household, she slips out of bed and tiptoes toward the door. Each step emits an incalculably loud aftershock, and the sound of the door creaking open is almost deafening in the stale silence. The hallway is pitch black dark and she trails her fingers lightly along the way to guide her to his door. When her hand brushes the doorknob, she turns it quickly and slips inside the darkened room, shutting the door behind her in a surprisingly graceful and soundless movement.

The Doctor's room is just as dark as the hall, and the absence of windows means there is no light for which her eyes to adjust, no hope of seeing even darkened movements or shapes in her peripheral vision.

But she can hear, oh, she can hear. She can hear the hitch of his breath in the void to her left, and she can hear the buzzing sound of silence. The stillness becomes another being in the room, thick and stagnant and impossible to ignore. Neither of them makes any movements for three or four interminable minutes; she knows because she can hear the frantic pounding of her heartbeat, can almost hear his. 

He swallows and it sounds like a canon firing. "Rose?" he whispers. He knows it's her.

She nods in the blackness. They're silent for a few more seconds before she manages to clear her tightened throat and speak. 

"I couldn't sleep," she whispers quietly, inanely. 

"Oh." 

Her head clears slightly at his tone, disappointed and resigned at the same time. Mostly resigned. "And, um, I couldn't sleep because I felt bad. About leaving things like we did. I'm sorry."

Another long few seconds pass before she hears a light scraping along the floor like a chair being pushed back and the rustle of clothing. "I'm sorry too, Rose. What I said…it was uncalled for."

"Yeah," she little more than mouths. 

The air shifts around her bare feet, and all at once she can feel him in front of her, can sense the heat of his body radiating out onto hers even though they're not touching. His breath on her face is heavy, his sigh almost toppling her to the floor.

He doesn't fumble as he reaches out and runs a feather-light finger touch down her arm, and she wonders if he can see better than her in the black hole in which they're standing. "I'm sorry," he repeats brokenly, and his hand ghosts up to her face, his thumb brushing her cheek and coming in to rest on her jawline. She can't help but turn her face into his cupped hand and hears him suck in a shallow breath. 

"Petty accusations are beneath you," she murmurs, her lips on his palm.

It's barely perceptible, would only be noticeable in this blaring silence, but her eyes narrow as she hears him inhale deeply, his nose close to the top of her head. 

"Did you just _smell_ me?" she asks, agape. Her voice is louder than it should be, and the sound slaps against her ears with a sting. 

He doesn't say anything, and she puts two and two together. "No," she snarls, fury saturating her entire body as she whips her face away from his touch. "You'd _better_ have not been sniffing out for the scent of Jack on me. Tell me that's not what you were doing."

His silence is her answer, and she backs away from him, slamming into the wall behind her. The door rattles on its frame, but she doesn't care anymore. 

"No," she rasps out, seeing only white in the dark room, "you don't get to do that. You lost any right to care about what I do. If you don't want me, fine, but don't you _dare_ …" To her horror, tears start streaming down her cheeks, and she shuts her mouth to fight them off before he can hear them in her voice.

"Rose…" he chokes out as if the very word stabs him through the chest with a million needles. 

"No. Just, no." She hears him advancing toward her and shoves her arm out in front of her blindly, hitting his chest and pushing him backward. "Stay away from me," she hisses, "don't touch me."

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"I've had enough of your apologising. Stop doing things you need to atone for, don't… Last night, I thought… but it obviously doesn't matter. You say things you don't mean all the time, don't you? All the time: things you think I want to hear, half-truths and blatant lies. You're no better than any old lowlife human bloke. You know I have feelings for you, and you just…manipulated—"

She's cut off by a pair of furious lips on hers, pillaging and plundering with bruising insistence. His hands grip her upper arms tightly, crushing her into his chest with something akin to desperation. It's not the possessive roughness of last night, this is different; this is like he's clinging to her like she's about to disappear forever into the ether. Caught off-guard, she gasps and his tongue immediately thrusts into her opened mouth, tangling with hers momentarily before retreating so he can bite down on her lower lip. 

His hips slam into hers and she feels the proof of his arousal jabbing and rutting into her belly. He's taking what he needs from her and it's instinct and need and want and redirected anger that fuels her equally fervent response for a while, but when he strokes her jawline with his thumb she comes to her senses and shoves him away forcefully. She can't do this again, has nothing left in her to freely give without a gaping and flayed hole in her heart tomorrow morning. 

He's panting in the darkness but makes no move to touch her again. Trembling, she folds her arms across her chest and tries to catch her own breath. "You don't get to do that," she manages to spit out before turning and fleeing. 

She's inside her own darkened room, almost to the bed when she hears his footsteps, heavy and urgent on the wooden floors behind her. 

A choked sob escapes her as the door loudly squeaks open. For a man unconscious to the world when she snuck out, Jack is on his feet and on the other side of the bed in a flash, shielding her with his body from the intruder. 

"Who's there?" Jack bellows, reaching behind himself with one arm to ensure she's safely ensconced. 

Lights flicker on down the hall, and she knows they've woken up their hosts. Even the filtered and distant light is overwhelming to her pupils and it takes a good few seconds to actually focus on the scene. 

The Doctor ignores Jack, striding forward toward Rose. "I didn't mean to…please, I'm…it won't happen again," he pleads and she almost gasps at the despair and raggedness colouring his expression and body stance. It's the first time he's truly looked every year of his nine centuries. 

She shrinks back behind Jack, not out of fear but because she simply can't be near him right now, and the American veritably snarls at the Doctor. 

"Stay back," he barks at the Doctor, fixing his gaze dominantly on the man. "What did you do to her?" he demands, his voice rising in decibel with every word. "Why is she crying? What the _fuck_ did you do?"

"Stop, it's okay—" Rose says in too small of a voice for the testosterone-fueled captain to notice.

"This doesn't concern you, Jack, back off," the Doctor mutters, stepping closer again only to be thwarted again by the Time Agent's protective stance. 

"It does if you made her cry," Jack growls. The Doctor glares at him but doesn't slow down his steps. "One more step and I'll deck you." 

The two men, each with their legs wide and fists clenched, glare at each other in a wordless stalemate. Rose feels pathetic and histrionic when she bursts into tears but it's beyond her control by this point. So many emotions are surging through her veins right now: arousal, anger, rejection, humiliation… 

Shame. Shrishti stumbles into the room, hastily adjusting the headdress she must have hurriedly pulled on when she heard the shouting. "Are you alright?" she gasps, observing Rose's distressed body language and facial expression. "Was there an intruder?"

Despite the morass of the situation, Rose has to spare an impressed thought for the fact that it was Shrishti and not her husband that sprang to their rescue. 

"Just this imbecile," Jack mutters at the floor, nodding toward the Doctor. 

"I'm so sorry, Shrishti," Rose beseeches the wide-eyed woman, "just a…misunderstanding. That's all. I'm so sorry we woke you."

Shrishti eyes the men, each wearing identical looks of abashment on their ducked heads. "Are you sure?" She looks sharply at the Doctor, the way Jack is still protecting her behind his back. "I can call out law enforcement… We have a no-tolerance policy for aggression here."

"No, no!" Rose splutters, extremely conscientious of saying anything to throw either of her companions in yet another alien jail and forcing herself to calm down. "Um, my _father_ here just, um, he just startled us. Needing his medication from my bag." 

"Oh." Shrishti nods in soft understanding, relaxing. "I see. My father used to forget his nightly medication too. Does he need any water to take them? I can run downstairs—"

"No need," the Doctor grumbles.

"Alright, I'll leave you to your sleep then. I'm sure the sandstorm has mostly died down by now; you should be able to leave whenever you want in the morning. I'm not sure if I'll be there, I leave for my job early, but my husband will be here."

"Thanks, Shrishti," Rose says sincerely. "Our apologies again, to you and your husband. Thanks for everything, if we don't see you." The woman nods and pads away, and Rose almost smiles when she catches a glimpse of her bare feet under the gown. 

Rose may have calmed somewhat, but the two men immediately resume their terse glaring match. She can't quite look the Doctor in the eye, but tugs at Jack's arm and escapes his hold. "Let's just go to bed so that morning can get here sooner. I just want to leave this planet, yeah?"

Both men nod grudgingly, the Doctor opening his mouth to speak but closing it as Jack's hackles rise again. The light from Shrishti's room goes out and they're shrouded in darkness. The sound of shuffling and then the door closing is the only indicator that the Doctor has slunk away and she turns to Jack to cry into his chest for the second time that night. He's still riled up and tense, but his heart rate gradually decreases against her cheek. 

"Thanks, Jack. He...it's fine, nothing we can't get past, just… Thanks for standing up for me."

"I'll always protect you, Rose," he promised, rubbing her back lightly. "You're worth protecting. I don't know what's going on between you two; I can guess, but… Just know that you can talk to me. Anytime."

"We slept together," she blurts out suddenly, still safely pressed into his warm, naked chest. "Last night."

"But that's great," Jack starts, and she can feel his smile against her hair, "isn't it?"

"Yeah. If he hadn't acted like such a little shite about it today. All he's done is pretend it didn't happen and snap at me, like he's angry with me. But I didn't even start it, I didn't _seduce_ him or anything, it was him, he..." She trails off as Jack becomes rigid and tense again. "No, he's perfectly in his rights to regret it, to make it a one-off… I know he's alien, and he's the Doctor… It just hurts to have him lash out at me about it. Like it's my fault or something."

Jack remained tense, but blew out a long breath and moved them over to sit on the bed, stumbling slightly in the dark. "Have you talked to him about it?"

"I've tried, he just freezes me out. I think he's even trying to push me toward you, stupid tosser."

"Well, it's his loss," Jack murmurs. He squeezes her tightly and brushes away the tears from her cheek. "Let's go to sleep, okay? Maybe things will look better in the morning. And if not, I'll throw him a right hook so hard he won't need the TARDIS to fly through time and space."

She laughs, and he lifts the covers for her to slip under, walking around to the other side of the bed after she’s tucked up. "Thanks, Jack," she whispers once he's in the bed. "You're better than the big brother I always fantasised about having."

"Can’t say I’ve ever thought about having a little sister, but if I did, you'd do nicely. Sweet dreams, Rose."

"Ditto."


	4. Chapter 4

Somehow she slept and somehow she feels less heavy when she wakes up to light streaming into the room from the hall. She's alone in the room, Jack obviously having left her to her rest, and she hurriedly throws on the hideous dress and veil and literally stumbles down the stairs, her feet tangling in the long dress on the third-to-last step.

The Doctor materialises before her sleep-fogged brain even registers the misstep, catching her in his arms at the bottom of the stairwell. The sounds of clinking of cutlery on clay mute and the movements in the corner of her eye slow to a sluggish slow-motion parody as they regard each other. Her mouth is open and although it takes a good few seconds to register, somehow she manages to snap it closed. 

He drops his eyes. "Are you okay?" he enquires quietly. 

"Yeah, thanks… this long dress…"

"Yeah."

He's still holding her in his arms, bridal style, and although there's nothing less in the entire universe that she wants to do, she squirms her legs to the floor and he lets go of his grip under her arms. 

She feels heavy again.

"Doctor, I—"  
"I'm sorry, Rose, for—"

They speak at the same time but a smile graces neither of their lips. His head ducks lower and she tries again.

"Doctor…it's fine, okay? Moments of insanity happen, and… Well, I can't say it doesn't hurt, but if you give me a couple of days, I promise I can act like it never happened and we can go back to the way things were."

He blows out a puff of breath and focuses on her again. "The way things were. Fantastic." She can tell he's trying to be sincere but can't help hearing an undertone of bitterness in his words. 

She narrows her eyes, the anger hovering and ready to leap. "That's what you want, right?"

Taking a step back, he seems to sense the edge in her voice and holds her gaze as if she were a wild animal ready to strike. "If that's what you want," he murmurs cautiously. 

His caution fails. If she were a porcupine, he'd have a faceful of needles right now. 

"Don't do that. Don't run away and then put the blame on me. You know exactly what I want: tell me what _you_ want." Her tone is low and dangerous and the only thing stopping her from yelling is the presence of their hosts in the kitchen adjacent.

"I want you—" His voice breaks and he clears his throat. "I want you to be happy. That's all. And I…" He censors himself again and peers at her imploringly. "It's better…it's good that other people can do that instead of me."

"I don't want other people," she whispers, trying to stave off the tears building behind her eyes. She's begging and she knows how pitifully desperate she must seem, but she's also not willing to live with the regret of not trying. 

There's silence for a moment before he flicks his eyes down to where the bruise on her neck would be under the thick dress. "Yes you do," he sighs, "and I don't blame you."

"I don't," she pleads. "I have no idea where you get that idea from, but I want _you_."

His eyes widen. "I don't…I mean, I… You…but…"

She cuts off his stammering. "You _know_ what I want," she repeats with a tremble, "so now it's down to you. Once you figure out what you want, let me know. Or not. Whatever." 

Turning away from him, she walks as calmly over to the table as she can muster and sits down, avoiding Jack's worried look next to her. She doesn't look back and when the Doctor doesn't join them after a few minutes, she assumes he's skulked back upstairs. 

Shrishti's husband (she'll probably never learn his name just like Shrishti will never ask the Doctor's or Jack's name) silently sets a plate of strange fruit in front of her and gestures to the basket of bread and fruit preserves on the table. Careful to avoid his eyes, she thanks him profusely and he shuffles back into the kitchen with a blush on his cheeks. 

"Alright?" Jack asks her, under his breath. 

"Yeah."

"Is he being a git still?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Maybe he just needs time."

"It's possible," the captain muses thoughtfully, "but it doesn't give him the right to treat you like that."

Rose sighs and picks at the fruit. "The problem is that he's not angry or lashing out or _anything_ this morning, he's… defeated, I don't know. He's acting like it was me who made the decision to forget the other night, not him."

"Are you sure you didn't make it seem that way? Miscommunication is usually an explanation for this kind of thing."

She thinks back to the conversation she'd had with the Doctor the morning after. She hadn’t exactly acted enthusiastic or walked right over and kissed him, it had been too awkward, but… She _had_ asked him if he wanted to talk about it, and it was _him_ that muttered his apologies for giving her the wrong impression… 

"Like I said last night, I think you should talk to him. Sit him down somewhere without an excuse to run off and hash it out. Calmly," Jack continued at her silence.

"I feel like I keep trying and trying… Clearly he doesn't want this.” She lowers her voice. “I think I just need to accept that sex with the Doctor was a one time thing and get over myself—"

A choked noise from behind her makes her stop and whip her head around. The Doctor's still standing at the bottom of the stairs, gaping at her with an open mouth and an expression of intense horror on his face. 

She's embarrassed that he's overheard her conversation with Jack but she's much more concerned about how white he's gone, the fact that he's so still it's clear he's not breathing. 

"Doctor?"

He doesn't seem to hear her and both Jack and Rose quickly scan the room for nefarious insects or invaders. "Doctor, what is it? Are you okay?" She hurries over to him and while he follows her movements and is still staring at her, he's otherwise motionless and his face transmits the same terrified expression. An urge to slap him out of his panic occurs to her, but she's not willing to go that far quite yet. Instead, she reaches her hand up to cup his jaw.

His eyes fall to her hand. He wets his lips. 

Jack is at her side, snapping his fingers in front of the Doctor's eyes with no success at rousing him from his stupor. "Doctor," he glowers, "snap out of it. What's wrong with you?"

It finally works but not in the way Jack was probably intending; all at once the Doctor sets his jaw in a firm line and grips her hand in a death vise before sprinting out the front door with Rose in tow. 

It takes a few seconds for her mind to catch up with her feet, her heavy dress flapping in the wind current of their velocity. He doesn't look back at her and from what she can see of his face his eyes are fixed straight ahead, hyper-focused on some goal.

"Doctor!" she pants, stumbling on the hem of her dress. The sandstone structures fly past as if they're made of liquid. "What… are we in danger?" She turns her head to see if Jack is following; he's not, or at least he's too far back for her to spot. 

He says nothing, won't even look at her in some sort of single-minded determination as their feet pound on the cobbled street, but a barely perceptible shake of his head seems to indicate that they're not running _from_ something. They're running _toward_ something and she wishes she knew what.

The sun beats down, the rays infiltrating her woolen prison, and the second they're out of the city she snatches the headdress off and flings it to the sand. Not a single backward glance. The sweat on her face makes for a bit of a breeze but their swift pace, the constriction of her dress, and the slippery sand leaves her gasping for breath within minutes.

"Doctor!" she wheezes out, "I need…rest…just…"

He halts at a standstill and she full-out body slams into his back. Dropping her head between her knees, white and yellow bokeh spots dance in the corner of her vision; it's quite pretty, really…. It's with a rush of wild adrenaline that she gives into the impulse to slough off her sticky dress, ripping at the loose threads in a sideseam to tear the neckline away and toeing the discarded heap away from sight. She's only in the white slip now, her legs and arms gloriously bare, but she manages to stave off the urge to kick off the boots: the sand is undoubtedly hot.

She hasn't bothered to check the Doctor's reaction to her disrobing, assuming he's still focused whatever zealous quest he's embarked them both upon, but a sidelong glance in his direction proves her wrong. He's instead staring at her as if he's never seen her face, as if he'd never fathomed her to possess skin or bipedal legs. 

Their eyes meet and he swallows. Her breath begins to even out just as she notices his breathing rate increase. 

"Gimme another minute, I'm still seeing spots," she says, cursing her weak human body. "Whatever we're racing across sand dunes for better be important," she notes with mock solemnity, playing for at least a ghost of a smile. Losing.

"The entire universe rests in its balance," he asserts so quietly she wonders if she heard him at all. 

Before she can weigh its meaning, the gentle beauty of the words and the unassuming sincerity of his tone, he gathers her into his arms so tenderly she becomes choked up and doesn't know exactly why. He's holding her like he wants to merge into her skin and at the same time as if she's so indescribably delicate that each finger on her bare skin might bruise it. Like she's both the axis of a star-blanketed galaxy and a formidable black hole and all she wants to do is immolate herself in the roaring fire and rocking sea of his gaze. 

Her arms encircle his neck; she’s given up trying to understand his behavior but she trusts him before the beginning and after the end of time. 

He takes off running. 

The TARDIS doors unfurl like the wings of a bird when they’re close and he carries her through the threshold and across the console room, continuing on through the corridors with dogged resolve. His door nearly hangs off its hinges after he kicks it open but he lowers her down his body and to her feet with painstaking care. He keeps his arm wrapped around her waist as if he’s all that stands before her and the floor (it might be true) as he strides over to the bed and hurls the duvet to the floor. 

And then it’s him who crumples to the floor, his fingers clutching behind her kneecaps and burying his face in her shins. 

“I thought it was a dream,” he chokes out, his voice muffled between her calves. 

She wants to step back, to pry his fingers from her legs and stumble backwards in horror, but he’s holding her too tightly and she doesn’t try very hard. 

“What? You thought…but you—” 

“I thought it was a dream, Rose, I never thought… I didn’t think it possible…You…”

“I. Yes, I…” she interrupts dazedly, not entirely sure what she’s trying to say. Her brain is buzzing and full and hollow and silent. “I, _we_ did. Here. In your bed.”

“I know now, I remember every second, I… I’m prone to lucid dreams, especially when I haven’t slept for a longer time than I should, I… I remember every millisecond, I was completely in control of my actions... But when I woke up I assumed… It wasn’t the first, er, dream of that sort…”

Her heart shatters into a billion particles and instantly rebuilds itself into something new, something ripe with possibilities and pain and life and death and hope. With a mind of its own, her hand rakes through his cropped hair and he shudders. 

“Tangled in these sheets before, have we?”

“More times than I’d ever admit, but Rose…Rose, I was so awful to you, I thought you’d slept with _Jack_ , when I saw the bite on your neck… It almost killed me.” He looks up at her, devastated and imploring. “And I goaded you, bloody hell, I practically tucked you into bed with him…”

His deflections and barbed words flash through her mind: “ _What else would you have me do?_ ”; “ _It's none of my business_ ”; how he “ _might as well be_ ” her father.

“Doctor, all yesterday and today… I was asking you to acknowledge that night and you were trying to...?”

“Trying to fight my feelings for you.” He’s studying her face anxiously. “I thought you’d chosen Jack, I wanted to…I just wanted you to be happy. I was trying to distance myself to make it easier... for you and for me.”

She swallows, a question on her tongue flapping wildly to break free. His eyes are so wide, so blue, so vulnerable. It’s the question she’s been dancing around for two days and for the first time the flutter in her fingers isn’t only fear. She opens the cage and closes her eyes.

“What…What are you feelings?”

His gaze doesn’t waiver and he doesn’t hesitate. “Agape. Eros. Philos. Storge. Affection and affliction; fear and terror; wonder and awe; strength and fragility; unconditionality and promise and rejoicing and trust and hope and sudden and slow and breathlessness and sublimation and passion and possession and lust and euphoria and… Millions of words to describe the stretching of my hearts around yours and they’re not enough. Not enough by a magnitude of billions.”

He gets to his feet as tears race down her face and leans over to kiss them dry. There’s nothing she can say to that, nothing in her lexicon to adequately describe her love either, so she whispers her soul through his lips instead and he accepts it with gentle caresses down her arms and across her spine. It’s the way their tongues flutter against each other, the hum in the back of his throat, the pressure of his skin against hers, and it builds until she’s drowning in the unspoken words.

“Doctor,” she moans when he moves to lightly suck his way down her jaw and neck and senses something break in his actions at the sound; hearts and other organs can only hold so much volume before they explode. His hum becomes a breathy growl and he guides her backward toward his bed with urgency. The back of her legs ram into the mattress and without detaching himself from the skin above her clavicle, he presses her supine across the sheets and hovers on his elbows and knees above her. His legs cradle hers between them and his hands are still under her back, but otherwise he’s maddeningly holding himself separate and she arches her hips into his pelvis with frustration.

“Shhh,” he chides softly but with a hint of a smirk in his eyes. “I’m going to do it right this time: I’m going to worship every square millimeter of your body and leave it singing before I make love to you.” He begins below her ear and traces a line of open-mouthed kisses along one jaw and up the other, latching on her earlobe gently before continuing on the road up to her forehead. His tongue darts out for occasional tastes and his hands fist up the cotton of her dress under her back. She writhes underneath him, jolts of arousal and need flaring between her legs, but doesn’t protest otherwise. 

“I’m going to apologise with my fingers and beg forgiveness with my tongue,” he murmurs in between gentle suction and tempered nibbles, “and I’ll keep doing it, day and night and day again until I earn my absolution.” Goosebumps cover her exposed skin despite the heat of his touch.

“Doctor…” she half-whines, half-moans, her hips drawn like a magnet to the magnetic north of his pelvis.

“Oh, Rose…I never imagined…that you would ever let me…” The control in his voice is fading as he circles his lips with his own, hovering above but never fully connecting. If he was any other man it would be a tease, but this…this feels like he’s holding off immediate gratification for a larger reward, like he’s savouring every second of anticipation and promise. 

But she’s not as patient as he, especially after waiting an entire day and night for this with decreasing hope of its possibility, and in one fell swoop she thrusts her neck upward and captures his lower lips between her teeth. He gives in immediately, sinking down into the benediction of her mouth and drawing his penitence through the tangle of his tongue with hers. 

She has to break free eventually, gasping for air as she closes her eyes and pants out his pardon. “Not let, I didn’t _let_ you…want…I _wanted_. I wanted you, I want you, I’ll want you, I—”

He cuts her off by finally lowering his body to hers, sinking his face into the cradle of her neck when she moans in response to his raging erection rocking against her throbbing centre. His lips lock onto her skin, sucking and biting harder this time before laving the angry blood vessels with a caress of his tongue. When he gets to the bruise above her clavicle, he stares in wonder for a few seconds before clamping down and gently deepening his mark. He pulls back to appreciate his workmanship and it seems to break down another layer in his restraint.

“Rose, I can’t…” he gasps out in a strangled voice before clearing his throat. “I mean, can you take off your, um, slip? Dress? This thing that’s holding your skin prisoner from mine?”

She can’t help but smile at his fluster, at the thin veil of constraint holding him together. “Take it off yourself,” she dares him with her tongue between her teeth and lifts her arms above her head. It’s gone in a flash and his eyes are flickering madly across her exposed body like they can’t decide where to land.

“You…you were wearing these…” he squeaks out in a pitch higher than she’s ever heard emitted from his mouth. Grinning at her foresight, she fingers the strap to her fire-engine red balcony bra. It and the matching bottoms are both sheer, practically transparent, and she can tell the exact moment he registers that her knickers are little more than strings at the crotch. 

“Needed something to make myself feel sexy in that sack I had to wear,” she explains, raking her fingers up his back and reveling in the resulting shiver that causes him to buck involuntarily into her pelvis. She’s not sure he realises his finger is circling her folds through the lace until his finger darts inside her and they both moan in pained satisfaction.

“Rose…” he growls but then abruptly withdraws his finger and pulls himself up and away from her body again. She can’t stop a whimper escaping her mouth at the loss of him. He’s breathing like he just finished a marathon and his eyes are squeezed shut as if in fervent prayer. 

All she wants to do is reach up and drag him down on top of her again, rut against him, rip off his t-shirt with her teeth, but she forces herself to breathe in a deep rhythmic pattern to calm her aching nerve endings. He’s trying so hard to go slowly and prove his devotion and penitence despite the fire she sees blazing behind those cool blue eyes.

“Why was I back in my room yesterday morning? When I woke up, after…” she finally asks when her heart rate decelerates a little. 

Relief followed by regret and discomfiture flicker across his face and he finally wrenches his eyes open. “I, um, I carried you back there. After… You passed out, asleep, after the second time, and…the sheets were… Well, I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable…” He’s blushing and she doesn’t even bother patching up the fractures in her heart this time; it’s cracked for life.

“Even though you thought it was a dream? That I was just a figment of your unconscious?”

“Yes,” he whispers, bowing his neck to rest his forehead on hers. “My…feelings for you extend to your dream-self too.”

They’re both silent for a beat. “Why didn’t you stay with me, then?” she asks in a small voice.

“My guilt also transcends waking and sleeping,” he says only and she understands. 

“Do you still feel guilty?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asks softly.

“You’re so fresh, vibrant, untouched by most of the horrors of the universe… It’s like plucking a wildflower from the wheat and letting it wither and die in a cracked old vase on the mantle.”

“Let me guess: you’re the vase in this metaphor,” she observes wryly but with a twinkle in her eye.

He doesn’t take her bait to smile and laugh it off, his face only growing more serious. “I’ve seen so much, done so much…How can I let any of that rub off on you, let a molecule of that hate and death defile—”

“Firstly, Doctor,” she interrupts, “I’m not a delicate little flower, I’ve seen my own share of hate and death growing up on a council estate not to mention on our travels. Secondly, anything of yours that _rubs off_ on me—” she punctuates the blatant innuendo by sliding one leg up his backside and pulling his body back down to meet hers, “—could only make me stronger. And a wildflower in a vase? Give me a break. You’re showing me the universe, not imprisoning me to droop on your mantelpiece.”

A strangled noise breaks through his lips and she reaches up to balm its path with light fingertips. “You were checking the sheets weren’t you?” she whispers sadly as she realises. “That’s why you practically abducted me away just now… You wouldn’t believe it without proof even though you heard me confirm it to Jack. Why? Why do you think it so impossible that someone would love you?”

His eyes close again but not before she sees a glint of wetness there. He’s quiet, still bent in supplication over her face. 

“I love you,” she repeats, “I love you. Just…believe me for now, suspend all your doubt for a little bit, and I’ll prove it, okay? Just trust me and you’ll see.”

“I believe _in_ you,” he chokes out after a long couple of seconds, so quietly she wouldn’t have been able to hear him if his lips weren’t centimeters away from her ear.

“Good. Now, I believe we were in the middle of something, and I think it’s my turn to worship you, to beg forgiveness for ever making you feel you weren’t enough, that I didn’t want you from almost the second we met.”

“You—” he starts to question in shock but she distracts him from all coherent speech when she flips them over using the leverage from her leg and a twist of her waist and sits up to roll her hips against his. Without breaking her rhythm, she leans down to mirror his lips’ earlier course across his jawline and face before lowering herself to bite down on an area on his neck approximately equivalent to the bruise he’d left her two nights ago. His hands clench at the sheets before rising to clutch at her gently undulating hips, guiding them to grind against him harder, faster. 

“Open your eyes, Doctor,” she commands and they shoot open, settling on her in rapt awe tinged with terror. “Touch me.”

His fingers slowly travel up from her hips across her back to unhook her bra, letting it fall forward onto his chest without a second glance. It seems almost painful for him to wrench his eyes away from hers, but she feels his hearts race when his gaze locks onto her breasts. Her hands were resting loosely on his waist but she has to move them up to his chest for support as he circles the tight buds with both hands, his feather-light fingers moving in perfect time with each other and with the rocking of her hips. 

He sits up on his elbows and with a glance at her for readily granted permission, closes his lips around one and swirls his tongue around the aching peak for all too short a minute before releasing it with a pop and moving over to the other one. 

Rose moans appreciatively and speeds up her rocking, the throbbing between her legs drumming in an increasingly insistent beat; the Doctor responds with hearty upward thrusts of his own that leave her feeling like liquid fire. He’s still fully dressed and she understands his early words about clothing’s jail-like qualities.

“I think…” she forces out between shallow breaths, “I think we need to remove more clothes.” 

“Mmm,” he murmurs noncommittally, content in his tongue’s exploration of her breasts, and the vibration of his throat against her swollen bud sends pools of wetness through her folds. 

“Doctor,” she moans and claws half-wild at his t-shirt, wet and stick with sweat against his tightened abdomen. The angle at which he’s sitting combined with his reluctant detachment from the solace of her breasts makes the shirt’s removal all but impossible so with a frustrated groan she pushes him back down to the bed, having to follow in his wake when his teeth clamp lightly down on her nipple and his arms tighten around her back. 

In no state of mind to argue with the possessiveness and intractability she sees in his eyes, she instead pushes the t-shirt up his chest to under his armpits and instead sits back up to deal with his jeans, running her hands down his bare chest as she moves. He follows, never once detaching himself from her pebbled bud, rolling it between his teeth and lightly biting down. 

A particularly reverberating drumbeat between her legs reminds her of why she’d been trying to stop him and she brushes his check with her thumb. “Doctor, if you can let go for ten seconds I promise I will make it worth your while.”

She sees the indecision in his eyes but with a final nip that causes her womb to contract, he drops back down to the pillow. His eyes follow her every movement as she hauls herself off him and kneels at his side to fumble with the button on his jeans. After an eternity it seems, it releases and she slides the zipper down excruciatingly slowly to avoid jarring the bulge she feels straining to escape. He squirms under the fingers but lifts his hips to help her slide the jeans and his black briefs down his legs and off, snagging and removing his flip flops in their path. 

His turgid cock is even larger than she remembers, drips of pre-come trailing from the bulbous tip to the ringed base as she stares at it dazedly. With one finger she spreads the thin fluid around in a spiraling motion and then lifts the finger to her mouth to suck it clean, maintaining eye contact with the Doctor the whole time. His eyes widen at her action and he bucks into the empty air. 

Quickly discarding her knickers, she climbs on top of his legs and runs the same finger, still wet with saliva, up the underside of straining phallus from base to tip before swooping down and taking him into her mouth, repeating the same action with her tongue. He’s trembling at the effort of not thrusting into her throat and she places one hand around the base where her mouth can’t reach and one hand on his hips to steady him. She rotates between swirls of her tongue and light sucking motions and when she pulls back to lick his tip such a violent shudder rocks through his body that she releases him quickly, worried she’s hurt him. 

But he’s watching her with flaring nostrils and his eyes are so dark they’re like the night sky instead of their usual daylight blue and his hair is damp and he’s biting his lip and he’s undone and she’s undone and she’s never felt so empty and he’s never felt so solid and she can’t linger another second.

She stands up on her knees and moves over to line her throbbing heat with his throbbing heat and with a quick squeeze of his base sinks down and has never been so full, so replete, so utterly and completely content. Content, that is, until the stakes are ratcheted higher with a groan and his involuntary bucking and it’s not enough again. It’s with the best of intentions that she starts out slowly, raising herself languorously back and forth and in figure-eights, but it’s impossible to sustain and she soon finds herself recklessly lifting up and slamming herself back down, aided by his strong hands and complimentary upward thrusts. The walls start narrowing in and she has to close her eyes against the onslaught of need and want and pleasure and need and need—

Until the walls break, and not in the good way, as she finds herself suddenly lifted up and deposited further up his chest, her internal muscles clenching at bitter nothingness.

“Rose!” he forces out, out of breath and with wild eyes, “Contraception! I didn’t…last time, I didn’t even think…I thought it was a dream!”

It takes her a few seconds to process the words through her haze of unfulfilled, rampaging arousal. “What? Contra—oh. Um, are we even, er, can I even get pregnant? I mean, you’re not human, I never really thought—“

“Perfectly compatible,” he mutters, the dark look passing over his face profoundly different from the darkness of lust that had only seconds ago eclipsed it. “Oh, Rose, I’m so sorry, I should have…it’s unforgivable.”

With a small smile, she brushes a droplet of moisture back from his crinkled forehead. “Most things are forgivable, Doctor. No need to worry, anyway, you can land us at a Superdrug later and I’ll pick up some emergency contraceptive. But for now, do you, um, do you have a condom?”

The Doctor shook his head glumly and she can feel his muscles tense, ready to flee, but she also spies a faint lightening of the dark in his expression, a glimmer of hope at her steadfast forgiveness. 

“I might have an old one in my room, quite old, possibly…hmm,” she thinks aloud. “Wait. Do we or do we not live on a sentient ship with a machine that turns particles into literally anything?”

“Yes, but…”

“So if I were you, I’d check that drawer on your nightstand.”

With a confused look, the Doctor reaches his arm over and fishes his hand through the half-open drawer, coming up with a pink canister and a blue canister of pills and a bottle of water. He stares at the objects in his hands in disbelief before closing his eyes for a second with a grateful smile. 

“Male contraceptive melt-away and female emergency contraception pill, coming up. Now this, Rose Tyler, is why I keep you around.”

“This? This is why you keep me?” she giggles and takes the proffered pill, swigging it down with the water the TARDIS thoughtfully provided. The Doctor beams one of his goofiest, most besotted smiles and places the blue pill onto his tongue. 

“This and many, many other reasons,” he intones in a low, silky voice after the pill dissolves and in a movement so graceful it can’t be the first time he’s employed it, she’s on her back and he’s grinning down at her like the cat that caught the canary. 

With one move he’s fully inside her again and her bones and muscles jellify. The darkness of regret in his eyes has fully morphed into the darkness of possessiveness and desire and he barely pauses to give her time to adjust to this new position before thrusting madly into her, long smooth outward strokes followed by rough, unrestrained inward slams. His frenzied thrusts are met with her own frenzied thrusts, in sync with each other at first but rapidly devolving. 

He tugs her legs up his sides, gripping her thighs with his hands and holding up the back of her knees with his elbows, and she wraps her calves around his back and hooks her angles together. This angle allows his cock to brush against her clit with every stroke and just like two night ago, she’s teetering on the edge within minutes. 

She’s aware that she should be trying to categorise his scent, split it into its components, but she doesn’t have enough processing capacity as he adds a twist to his thrusts and mutters foreign words across his tongue to hers. He smells like heat, like ice and light, like danger and safety, like the stars and like the snow, like love and lust, like the big bang and the universe's final implosion.

With a deep grunt he shifts one of her legs to sit on top of his shoulder in order to free up his hand. It’s the very first touch of his finger to the swollen clit that sends her over the edge, kicking and screaming and clawing at a sea of stars; she almost manages to tear away the sky to glimpse his blaze. 

She’s so far gone that she barely notices him following right behind her, just as he’s always done, just as he’ll always do. He seems to expand within her as he pumps coolness into her core but her shiver is not from the cold. 

“Mmm,” she hums a minute or thousands of millennia later, barely aware of her own existence much less what she’s saying. “I like it when you’re rough and dominating.”

“Do you?” the Doctor smirks, completely aware and still completely erect. “More of that can _certainly_ be arranged. I think you know the drill. Flip over.”

If she had though herself too spent to move even a muscle, she was wrong; a flood of heat and wetness shoots through her sex and she can’t get to her hands and knees fast enough. For the second time in two days she rubs her thighs together and for the second time he stops her.

“I very clearly remember telling you that your pleasure is _mine_ ,” the Doctor growled but instead of pulling her legs further apart he places his hands on the outside of her legs and pushes them firmly together. “Keep them there,” he orders in a low, commanding rumble. 

“I need you,” she whimpers, turning her head to peer back at him. He’s sitting back on his haunches, t-shirt now removed, palming his erection and staring at her hungrily. 

“Grip the headboard.”

She does but he still doesn’t move. The anticipation, the aching need rolls in waves across her body and she arches her back downward, thrusting her bum higher. 

“Stay still, keep your head forward,” he reprimands but it only makes her more needy, more antsy. After what seems like an aeon, she feels a cool finger part her folds and slide up from her throbbing button to her slit, circling the entrance almost playfully. Without warning, three fingers are thrust inside her and she can’t help pushing back against them to drive them in further.

“Patience,” he reminds her but his voice is broken and she hears his respiration rate climb rapidly. “Rose, you can’t…I mean, are you sore? We don’t have to—”

“Fuck me,” she grinds out, moving her hips to encourage his fingers to move within her, “I can’t wait any longer, _please_ …”

A strangled noise escapes him and before she’s even aware of his fingers leaving her, he pushes himself inside her to the hilt. His hands still grip the outside of her thighs, pressing them together even more and making her passage so tight that he feels bigger than he’s ever been. It’s almost too much but it’s also not enough as he holds himself motionless inside her. 

“Rose…fuck, _fuck_ , you feel so good. So warm and stretched around me; I can feel you straining but you’re contracting too and growing even more impossibly wet with every second. You like this, don’t you; being extended to your limits. I’m going to push them further though, you’re going to be so full of me that you’ll never be able to be satisfied by anyone else ever again.”

She can only keen against him in response and he takes it as his signal to start pumping into her: long, hard strokes that withdraw almost completely each time before crashing against her walls in desperate need. It’s like he can’t thrust hard enough; it’s like she can’t get enough. 

“You’re mine now; this time you’re mine and you’ll be mine tomorrow too,” he grunts as his sweat trickles down the small of her back, “and I’ll never let you go.” 

The muscles in her arms are on fire from pressing back against the headboard to prevent being slammed into it but somehow through her daze of pleasure and need she manages to hold on. Just when her arms are about to give out, she emits a tiny noise and he knows the problem immediately, raising one of his own hands to grip the wooden dowel between her hands. 

It serves to increase his leverage and with two more half-punishing thrusts, he’s coming apart above her, behind her, inside her. “Rose,” he bellows urgently as his hand moves from her leg to rub furiously at her clit, “come! Come _now_!”

She obeys and he shoots his cool seed into her depths once more, the prolific volume stretching her even further as she’s hurled through the starry sky again. A scream of pleasure echoes through the silent night, reverberating through her body and mind; it’s only later that she realizes the sound is coming from her own throat. The wallpaper of the sky lays torn between her fingers, his light blinding and complete.

Trembling hands gently pry her clenched fingers from the headboard where they’re locked in place and a pair of warm lips brush against them briefly before he collapses on his side and pulls her down with him. Her eyes are screwed shut, the aftershocks of her blinding orgasm still ricocheting through her buzzing body, but she can sense his satisfied smile against the back of her neck before she succumbs to the darkness. 

\---

When she wakes up she’s facing him, his breath hot on her face and his arms wrapped so tightly around her she can hardly draw a full lungful of air. Breathing is overrated.

It’s a few seconds before she registers the repetitive sound that woke her up, a rapid tapping or knocking.

“Rose? Are you in there? Are you alright?” Jack’s voice is muffled through the thick door. The door that only an hour ago had been hanging off its hinges… She whips her head around to check but it’s thankfully closed and un-cracked. Her movement makes the Doctor clutch her tighter and mutter unintelligible syllables against her hair.

“Fine!” she yells but her voice is horse and she has to try again. “Fine, Jack, thanks!” she manages to emit at a loud enough volume and she knows he hears her from his light chuckle and retreating footsteps. 

“I appreciate how protective he is of you, I’ll give him that,” the Doctor grumbles and peeks open one eye at her. “As long as he knows you’re mine.”

She grins and rolls him over onto his back without warning, climbing on top of him and leaning down to suck on the light bruise on his neck. “I think you’ll find, Doctor, that it’s _you_ who belongs to me...”

“Always have,” he murmurs, tilting his head back and raking his hand through her hair, “never doubt that, Rose Tyler. Slayer of my demons and goddess of my hearts.”


End file.
